Instruments of Crime
by AnnaW14
Summary: After working on the wrong side of the law, Jace Herondale meets the powerful Jonathan Morgenstern. Soon after he is dragged further into the dark underworld of NYC criminals as a dangerous friendship forms between the two men. Trouble follows when Jace begins falling for the mysterious wife of his boss.
1. Prologue

Broken fingernails clawed at the floor uselessly. Her sudden and pointless movements caused new scratches to arise on her already tattered back, further tearing her clothing as wood splinters bit into her skin like tiny needles.

_Not that it makes a difference,_ she thought, _I'm already in rags._

Had she not been in this place so long, the girl might have cared about her current state of hygiene. She had grown used to the dirt that covered her body and matted her hair. She liked to think of it as a blanket of sorts, one to provide a little comfort when the cold became unbearable. The sweat that dripped off of her customers remained with her until the next cleaning, reminding her of the countless horrors inflicted upon her frail body and fragile conscious. The only time these feelings were washed away was when her condition became so serious that no one would touch her. Even then, all she received was a freezing hose down and a torn towel. The memories, however, remained as resilient as ever. She still wore the same ratty dress she had arrived in all those years ago. It mostly fit her, as she had grown very little due to malnourishment and abuse. The girl wanted to die.

She laughed, though it was more of a strangled cackle. The people here cared nothing for her health and survival. They kept her around because she was still profitable and cost very little to care for. The only thing that they bothered with any more were the doses of heroine to keep her compliant and weak. Without it, she was a starved dog, dying in a bottomless pit. She had nothing to live for aside from addiction, but her body refused to give up.

_Traitor_, she mocked.

The only tether to reality she had was the panicked cries, and desperate moans from her fellow inmates. She had never even seen their faces, thought they were the closest things to friends she had ever had. They shared her anguish, understood her horror, and they never talked back. It was a silent agreement, a horrible secret they all shared.

She had been left in the cell for too long now. No visitors had come to play and she grew restless. Having no visitors mean no high and no high means excruciating torture. She would be forced to writhe in her pain without the sweet cloak of disconnect.

_I wonder who I pissed off._ She also wondered _how_. It wasn't like she had any power for disobedience. She couldn't fight back. Never in her life had she missed the tight grip of lustful hands, the degrading slurs, and the pain as she was thrashed about like a ragdoll. If she didn't get a visitor soon, she wouldn't receive the drug she craved so badly. Her body thirsted for it more than it did water or food.

She sat in the darkness for hours, these frenzied thoughts chasing circles around her head, waiting for her drug-addicted body to collapse in on it's self. The longer she waited, the closer she felt herself reach for permanent insanity-if she hadn't already. Who was she to know what a normal mind felt like?

The girl imagined all of the dust collecting into a giant river in the air, winding it's way from wall to wall, and tangling into her matted hair. Her bony knuckles turned white as she waited in anticipation for the unknown. Blood seeped from where her nails bit into her palms, immediately absorbing into the ground. She felt her eyelids go heavy, as if lead weights had been attached to them. Some one else may have fought, knowing that this could very well be their demise, but the ghost girl didn't. She allowed her eyes to fall shut, praying that she would never have to open them again.

She lay there; body slumped against the wall, succumbing to exhaustion, never once moving. She did not stir as the door opened at the end of the hall, nor did she move as heavy footsteps thundered nearby. She did not even flinch at the jangle of keys, turning the lock of her cell door. Not once did her eyes flicker when light filtered through the grimy air, or warm hands gently picked her up.

The girl simply laid there, as much a prisoner to her mind as she was to this horrible trade. Once again, she failed to die, but would indeed live to see another morning.


	2. Correction! IMPORTANT

Hey guys, this is (obviously) not a chapter. Greygirl pointed out to me that I accidentally uploaded the first chapter for one of my other stories (What is Desired) to this one. I have since reuploaded, and hope to clearn any confusion. Thanks!


	3. The Message

The Message-

Jace hated pleather.

He hated the buzz of the neon lights and the glare of the linoleum floors.

_Teal is never a good color,_ he thought, grimacing at the grind of his fork over the counter top.

More than anything, Jace hated cheap things.

The question of why he came here night after night often kept him up at night. For several months now, he had been coming to this God-awful diner for shitty coffee and gooey pie. It was never a pleasant experience, but upon his arrival in New York, Jace had taken a liking to the name.

_Taki's_, a flickering fluorescent light read outside the door.

"Can I get you anything else?" A sultry southern drawl called, pulling his eyes up. Baby doll eyes and rosebud lips narrowed to a wicked slant, forming a tempting offer. _Lola_, her nametag read. Lola winked at him as Jace shook his head, passing her a few bills. She sauntered off, returning a few moments later with change. Jace glanced down, noting the scrap paper with her phone number scrawled in messy script, and smirked. He may take her up on the offer, but not now. He had a job to do.

Jace pushed himself away from the counter, cringing at the noise the stool made, and swung his black coat carelessly around his shoulders. He gave Lola one last glance before brushing out the doors and into the dark of night.

A scarlet river ran through the canyons that were the dented floorboards. The gruesome waves wove through bends and pooled in twisted ponds, each one a life sentence to the unlucky owner. Every now and then a shard of glass or fallen piece of debris littered the landscape that was the torn-apart room, obstructing the view that was reflected in the glossy gaze of the body.

The tangled joints that were once knees now rested in battered mountains, broken beyond repair. The twisted tree root fingers that fed into the palms of the man's hands were snapped and weakened, speaking of death and decay.

Jace imagined the torso to be the core of a planet, rotten and fading. What had once possessed life was now drifting through empty space, through oblivion, and into the black depths of anti-matter.

No life could grow here. Jace had made sure of that.

In this situation, Jace was God, all-powerful and mighty, doing as he saw fit.

_The Destroyer Of Worlds_, he thought grimly. It was in situations like this that he understood how Robert Oppenheimer had felt, though Jace had no remorse. The man had broken a promise to Jace's employer. That was all, and it was crime enough for the man's own death.

_Never get into this business if you're not strong enough to live with it._

He surveyed the room with little interest, unfazed by the violence of the scene that was laid out before him. It did nothing if not inconvenience him. In his death, the man had made sure to trash as much as he could. The kill had been quick, but the man decided to make the clean up far more difficult.

Jace sneered. He had always hated people that made messes. It was so crude.

_Time to play maid_, he mocked himself. Jace turned to the black duffle bag behind him, unzipping the top and spilling the contents. He would make quick work of this, hopefully returning home early and relaxing a little. Maybe he would call Lucy up for a drink. Jace liked the sound of that, smiling to himself as he worked his magic over his toxic potion.

Jace lost himself in the familiar scent of chemicals, firmly placing a gas mask over his face, as he continued to rummage about, wiping the room of any evidence of the night's events. It had all become so familiar. So ingrained in his routine were these activities that they hardly raised his pulse.

Jace was bored.

Jace thirsted for change.

The night was cold and reeked of darkness. Anyone in the city could have sensed the deceit that resided in the unlit alleyways of New York. The cold was the kind bit through layers of cloth, settling within bones and hibernating in the bodies all those that it could sink its claws into. Jace treated this fact the same as he would anything else, not even bothering to button his coat.

Upon approaching his current home, a modern building filled with glass, hard lines, and marble, Jace felt a shift in the air. Something in the back of his mind warned him of the shifted air, and the slant of light. His hand rested cautiously on the door handle, unsure of what to expect on the other side. Mentally, he did calculations, checking off boxes on an imaginary list. He had done everything right. There were no ends that Jace hadn't tied, no mistakes in any cleanups, and most certainly no incorrect deaths. There was no reason for anything to be on the other side of the door, and yet, he hesitated, if only for a moment. Jace was the best, he was never sloppy and he was never wrong. It was that fact, and that fact alone, that led him to turn the handle and push into his apartment.

All was silent.

There was no creak of shifted weight, no scuff of shoes, and no ruffle of clothing. The strange thing was that there was no sign of any entry besides his own, but Jace still had that peculiar feeling in the back of his mind. It was as if a ghost had been there. The hair on the back of his neck stood up like it might on a watchdog.

It was then that he noticed a flicker of light coming from the living room. It seemed to fade in and out as a cigarette or cigar would. Jace silently pulled out a knife from the waist of his pants. He flicked the blade open, making his way toward the archway that separated the hall from the other room without a sound. As he neared the room, his pace slowed until he may as well have been crawling. Jace paused at the threshold, taking one last breath before whirling into action. His body sprang forward with cat-like grace, rolling to his feet and preparing to strike at whatever was waiting for him.

The room was empty.

Confused, Jace turned about searching for the assailant. Every way he turned he came up empty. Resigning himself to the idea that whoever had been there had long since left, Jace moved toward the table where a candle was flickering. A small white envelope rested at the base of it, foggily reflecting the light that wavered above it.

Jace, no longer on edge, picked it up, examining the note in his hands. He quickly opened the sealed edge with a flick of his knife, removing the contents quickly after. He selected the small card first, flipping it over and scrutinizing the message.

_"We have a job offer", _was all that was there aside from an address that he did not recognize. There was no signature on the card, though Jace was used to that in this line of work. What was unusual was that no one had stepped forward to meet him. He assumed that they had known he would be out, and as such entered accordingly.

Moving on to the other envelope, Jace pulled out a first class plane ticket to Bangkok, Thailand. The plane was to depart the following night at 7:30.

Jace sat down in one of the great backed armchairs, reaching over and pouring himself a glass of scotch. He quickly memorized the address before holding the card out to the candle. He watched emotionless as the paper was warped, twisting as it was singed into nothingness. He held the corner until the last moment, when he let go, allowing the destroyed remnants of the paper to drift to the floor where the crumbled further.

By the time they reached the wooden floors, Jace's mind was made. He would go to Thailand and meet the mysterious owner of the card. He was bored with New York and in desperate need of a change. He wasn't accustomed to remaining in one place so long.

Jace pushed himself back, swinging his legs up on the table, no longer caring about leaving scuffmarks. For now, he would relax and worry about tomorrow when the time came. Jace searched through his pocket, clasping the receipt from earlier in the palm of his hands. Perhaps he would give Lola the waitress a call…

**Hey guys! I know it has been a while, but I finally got inspiration for this story. I think I have a pretty good outline now, so updating should be quicker! As always… Review! Review! Review!**


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